No cold exemption from her pain I ever wish'd to know;Cheer'd with her transport, I sustain Without complaint her woe.

Above whate'er content can give, Above the charm of ease,The restless hopes, and fears that live With her, have power to please.

Where but for her, were Friendship's power To heal the wounded heart,To shorten sorrow's ling'ring hour, And bid its gloom depart?

'Tis she that lights the melting eye With looks to anguish dear;She knows the price of ev'ry sigh, The value of a tear.

She prompts the tender marks of love Which words can scarce express;The heart alone their force can prove, And feel how much they bless.

Of every finer bliss the source! 'Tis she on love bestowsThe softer grace, the boundless force Confiding passion knows;

When to another, the fond breast Each thought for ever gives;When on another, leans for rest. And in another lives!

Quick, as the trembling metal flies, When heat or cold impels,Her anxious heart to joy can rise, Or sink where anguish dwells!

Yet tho' her soul must griefs sustain Which she alone, can know;And feel that keener sense of pain Which sharpens every woe;

Tho' she the mourner's grief to calm, Still shares each pang they feel,And, like the tree distilling balm, Bleeds, others wounds to heal;

While she, whose bosom fondly true, Has never wish'd to range;One alter'd look will trembling view, And scarce can bear the change;

Tho' she, if death the bands should tear, She vainly thought secure;Thro' life must languish in despair That never hopes a cure;

Tho' wounded by some vulgar mind, Unconscious of the deed,Who never seeks those wounds to bind But wonders why they bleed;--

She oft will heave a secret sigh, Will shed a lonely tear,O'er feelings nature wrought so high, And gave on terms so dear;

Yet who would hard INDIFFERENCE choose, Whose breast no tears can steep?Who, for her apathy, would lose The sacred power to weep?

Tho' in a thousand objects, pain, And pleasure tremble nigh,Those objects strive to reach, in vain, The circle of her eye.

Cold, as the fabled god appears To the poor suppliant's grief,Who bathes the marble form in tears, And vainly hopes relief.

Ah _Greville!_ why the gifts refuse To souls like thine allied?No more thy nature seem to lose No more thy softness hide.

No more invoke the playful sprite To chill, with magic spell,The tender feelings of delight, And anguish sung so well;

That envied ease thy heart would prove Were sure too dearly boughtWith friendship, sympathy, and love, And every finer thought.

A SONG.

I.

No riches from his scanty store My lover could impart;He gave a boon I valued more-- He gave me all his heart!

II.

His soul sincere, his gen'rous worth, Might well this bosom move;And when I ask'd for bliss on earth, I only meant his love.

III.

But now for me, in search of gain From shore to shore he flies:Why wander riches to obtain, When love is all I prize?

IV.

The frugal meal, the lowly cot If blest my love with thee!That simple fare, that humble lot, Were more than wealth to me.

V.

While he the dang'rous ocean braves, My tears but vainly flow:Is pity in the faithless waves To which I pour my woe?

VI.

The night is dark, the waters deep, Yet soft the billows roll;Alas! at every breeze I weep-- The storm is in my soul.

ANODEON THEPEACE.

I.

As wand'ring late on Albion's shore That chains the rude tempestuous deep, I heard the hollow surges roar And vainly beat her guardian steep;I heard the rising sounds of woe Loud on the storm's wild pinion flow;And still they vibrate on the mournful lyre,That tunes to grief its sympathetic wire.

II.

From shores the wide Atlantic laves, The spirit of the ocean bears In moans, along his western waves, Afflicted nature's hopeless cares: Enchanting scenes of young delight, How chang'd since first ye rose to sight;Since first ye rose in infant glories drestFresh from the wave, and rear'd your ample breast.

III.

Her crested serpents, discord throws O'er scenes which love with roses grac'd; The flow'ry chain his hands compose, She wildly scatters o'er the waste: Her glance his playful smile deforms, Her frantic voice awakes the storms,From land to land, her torches spread their fires,While love's pure flame in streams of blood expires.

IV.

Now burns the savage soul of war, While terror flashes from his eyes, Lo! waving o'er his fiery car Aloft his bloody banner flies:The battle wakes--with awful sound He thunders o'er the echoing ground,He grasps his reeking blade, while streams of bloodTinge the vast plain, and swell the purple flood.

V.

But softer sounds of sorrow flow; On drooping wing the murm'ring gales Have borne the deep complaints of woe That rose along the lonely vales-- Those breezes waft the orphan's cries, They tremble to parental sighs,And drink a tear for keener anguish shed,The tear of faithful love when hope is fled.

VI.

The object of her anxious fear Lies pale on earth, expiring, cold, Ere, wing'd by happy love, one year Too rapid in its course, has roll'd; In vain the dying hand she grasps, Hangs on the quiv'ring lip, and claspsThe fainting form, that slowly sinks in death,To catch the parting glance, the fleeting breath.

VII.

Pale as the livid corse her cheek, Her tresses torn, her glances wild,-- How fearful was her frantic shriek! She wept--and then in horrors smil'd:She gazes now with wild affright, Lo! bleeding phantoms rush in sight--Hark! on yon mangled form the mourner calls,Then on the earth a senseless weight she falls.

VIII.

And see! o'er gentle Andre's tomb, The victim of his own despair, Who fell in life's exulting bloom, Nor deem'd that life deserv'd a care; O'er the cold earth his relicks prest, Lo! Britain's drooping legions rest;For him the swords they sternly grasp, appearDim with a sigh, and sullied with a tear.

IX.

While Seward sweeps her plaintive strings, While pensive round his sable shrine, A radiant zone she graceful flings, Where full emblaz'd his virtues shine; The mournful loves that tremble nigh Shall catch her warm melodious sigh;The mournful loves shall drink the tears that flowFrom Pity's hov'ring soul, dissolv'd in woe.

X.

And hark, in Albion's flow'ry vale A parent's deep complaint I hear! A sister calls the western gale To waft her soul-expressive tear;'Tis Asgill claims that piercing sigh, That drop which dims the beauteous eye,While on the rack of Doubt Affection provesHow strong the force which binds the ties she loves.

XI.

How oft in every dawning grace That blossom'd in his early hours, Her soul some comfort lov'd to trace, And deck'd futurity in flowers! But lo! in Fancy's troubled sight The dear illusions sink in night;She views the murder'd form--the quiv'ring breath,The rising virtues chill'd in shades of death.

So thro' the dark, impending sky, Where clouds, and fallen vapours roll'd, Their curling wreaths dissolving fly As the faint hues of light unfold-- The air with spreading azure streams, The sun now darts his orient beams--And now the mountains glow--the woods are bright--While nature hails the season of delight.

Bless, all ye powers! the patriot name That courts fair Peace, thy gentle stay; Ah! gild with glory's light, his fame, And glad his life with pleasure's ray!While, like th' affrighted dove, thy form Still shrinks, and fears some latent storm,His cares shall sooth thy panting soul to rest,And spread thy vernal couch on Albion's breast.

XVII.

Ye, who have mourn'd the parting hour, Which love in darker horrors drew, Ye, who have vainly tried to pour With falt'ring voice the last adieu! When the pale cheek, the bursting sigh, The soul that hov'ring in the eye,Express'd the pains it felt, the pains it fear'd--Ah! paint the youth's return, by grief endear'd.

XVIII.

Yon hoary form, with aspect mild, Deserted kneels by anguish prest, And seeks from Heav'n his long-lost child, To smooth the path that leads to rest!-- He comes!--to close the sinking eye, To catch the faint, expiring sigh;A moment's transport stays the fleeting breath,And sooths the soul on the pale verge of death.

XIX.

No more the sanguine wreath shall twine On the lost hero's early tomb, But hung around thy simple shrine Fair Peace! shall milder glories bloom.Lo! commerce lifts her drooping head Triumphal, Thames! from thy deep bed;And bears to Albion, on her sail sublime,The riches Nature gives each happier clime.

XX.

She fearless prints the polar snows, Mid' horrors that reject the day; Along the burning line she glows, Nor shrinks beneath the torrid ray: She opens India's glitt'ring mine, Where streams of light reflected shine;Wafts the bright gems to Britain's temp'rate vale,And breathes her odours on the northern gale.

XXI.

While from the far-divided shore Where liberty unconquer'd roves, Her ardent glance shall oft' explore The parent isle her spirit loves; Shall spread upon the western main --Harmonious concord's golden chain,While stern on Gallia's ever hostile strandFrom Albion's cliff she pours her daring band.

Enchanting visions sooth my sight-- The finer arts no more oppress'd, Benignant source of pure delight! On her soft bosom love to rest. While each discordant sound expires, Strike harmony! strike all thy wires;The fine vibrations of the spirit moveAnd touch the springs of rapture and of love.

And poesy! thy deep-ton'd shell The heart shall sooth, the spirit fire, And all the passion sink, or swell, In true accordance to the lyre. Oh! ever wake its heav'nly sound, Oh! call thy lovely visions round;Strew the soft path of peace with fancy's flowers,With raptures bless the soul that feels thy powers.

XXVI.

While Hayley wakes thy magic string, His shades shall no rude sound profane, But stillness on her folded wing, Enamour'd catch his soothing strain: Tho' genius breathe its purest flame --Around his lyre's enchanting frame;Tho' music there in every period roll,More warm his friendship, and more pure his soul.

XXVII.

While taste refines a polish'd age, While her own _Hurd_ shall bid us trace The lustre of the finish'd page Where symmetry sheds perfect grace; With sober and collected ray To fancy, judgment shall displayThe faultless model, where accomplish'd artFrom nature draws a charm that leads the heart.

XXVIII.

Th' historic Muse illumes the maze For ages veil'd in gloomy night, Where empire with meridian blaze Once trod ambition's giddy height: Tho' headlong from the dang'rous steep Its pageants roll'd with wasteful sweep,Her tablet still records the deeds of fameAnd wakes the patriot's, and the hero's flame.

XXIX.

While meek philosophy explores Creation's vast stupendous round; Sublime her piercing vision soars, And bursts the system's distant bound. Lo! mid' the dark deep void of space A rushing world[A] her eye can trace!--It moves majestic in its ample sphere,Sheds its long light, and rolls its ling'ring year.

[A] Alluding to Mr. Herschel's wonderful discoveries, and particularly to his discovery of a new planet called the Georgium Sidus.

XXX.

Ah! still diffuse thy genial ray, Fair Science, on my Albion's plain! And still thy grateful homage pay Where Montagu has rear'd her fane; Where eloquence and wit entwine Their attic wreath around her shrine;And still, while Learning shall unfold her store,With their bright signet stamp the classic ore.

While Albion on her parent deep Shall rest, may glory light her shore, May honour there his vigils keep Till time shall wing its course no more;Till angels wrap the spheres in fire, Till earth and yon fair orbs expire,While chaos mounted on the wasting flame,Shall spread eternal shade o'er nature's frame.

EDWIN AND ELTRUDA,

A LEGENDARY TALE.

_Mark it, Cesario, it is old and plain; The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones Do use to chant it. It is silly, sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age._SHAKSPEARE'S TWELFTH NIGHT.

EDWIN AND ELTRUDA

A LEGENDARY TALE.

Where the pure Derwent's waters glide Along their mossy bed,Close by the river's verdant side, A castle rear'd its head.

The ancient pile by time is raz'd, Where Gothic trophies frown'd;Where once the gilded armour blaz'd, And banners wav'd around.

There liv'd a chief, well known to fame, A bold advent'rous knight;Renown'd for victory; his name In glory's annals bright.

What time in martial pomp he led His gallant, chosen train;The foe, who oft had conquer'd, fled, Indignant fled, the plain.

Yet milder virtues he possest, And gentler passions felt;For in his calm and yielding breast The soft affections dwelt.

No rugged toils the heart could steel, By nature form'd to proveWhate'er the tender mind can feel, In friendship, or in love.

He lost the partner of his breast, Who sooth'd each rising care;And ever charm'd the pains to rest She ever lov'd to share.

From solitude he hop'd relief. And this lone mansion sought,To cherish there his faithful grief, To nurse the tender thought.

In every scene thy hands have drest,In every form by thee imprest,Upon the mountain's awful head,Or where the shelt'ring woods are spread;In every note that swells the gale,Or tuneful stream that cheers the vale,The cavern's depth, or echoing grove,A voice is heard of praise, and love.

As o'er thy work the seasons roll,And sooth with change of bliss, the soul,Oh never may their smiling trainPass o'er the human scene in vain!But oft as on the charm we gaze,Attune the wond'ring soul to praise;And be the joys that most we prize,The joys that from thy favour rise!

_Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she shouldnot have compassion on the son of her womb? Yea,they may forget, yet will I not forget thee._

ISAIAH xlix. 15.

Heaven speaks! Oh Nature listen and rejoice!Oh spread from pole to pole this gracious voice!"Say every breast of human frame, that proves"The boundless force with which a parent loves;"Say, can a mother from her yearning heart"Bid the soft image of her child depart?"She! whom strong instinct arms with strength to bear"All forms of ill, to shield that dearest care;"She! who with anguish stung, with madness wild,"Will rush on death to save her threaten'd child;"All selfish feelings banish'd from her breast,"Her life one aim to make another's blest."When her vex'd infant to her bosom clings,"When round her neck his eager arms he flings;"Breathes to her list'ning soul his melting sigh,"And lifts suffus'd with tears his asking eye!"Will she for all ambition can attain,"The charms of pleasure, or the lures of gain,"Betray strong Nature's feelings, will she prove"Cold to the claims of duty, and of love?"But should the mother from her yearning heart"Bid the soft image of her child depart;"When the vex'd infant to her bosom clings"When round her neck his eager arms he flings;"Should she unpitying hear his melting sigh,"And view unmov'd the tear that fills his eye;"Should she for all ambition can attain,"The charms of pleasure, or the lures of gain,"Betray strong Nature's feelings--should she prove"Cold to the claims of duty, and of love!"Yet never will the God, whose word gave birth"To yon illumin'd orbs, and this fair earth;"Who thro' the boundless depths of trackless space"Bade new-wak'd beauty spread each perfect grace;"Yet when he form'd the vast stupendous whole,"Shed his best bounties on the human soul;"Which reason's light illumes, which friendship warms,"Which pity softens, and which virtue charms;"Which feels the pure affections gen'rous glow,"Shares others joy, and bleeds for others woe--"Oh never will the gen'ral Father prove"Of man forgetful, man the child of love!"When all those planets in their ample spheresHave wing'd their course, and roll'd their destin'd years;When the vast sun shall veil his golden lightDeep in the gloom of everlasting night;When wild, destructive flames shall wrap the skies,When Chaos triumphs, and when Nature dies;Man shall alone the wreck of worlds survive,Midst falling spheres, immortal man shall live!The voice which bade the last dread thunders roll,Shall whisper to the good, and cheer their soul.God shall himself his favour'd creature guideWhere living waters pour their blissful tide,Where the enlarg'd, exulting, wond'ring mindShall soar, from weakness and from guilt refin'd;Where perfect knowledge, bright with cloudless rays,Shall gild eternity's unmeasur'd days;Where friendship, unembitter'd by distrust,Shall in immortal bands unite the just;Devotion rais'd to rapture breathe her strain,And love in his eternal triumph reign!

_Whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them._

MATT. vii. 12.

Precept divine! to earth in mercy given,O sacred rule of action, worthy heaven!Whose pitying love ordain'd the bless'd commandTo bind our nature in a firmer band;Enforce each human suff'rer's strong appeal,And teach the selfish breast what others feel;Wert thou the guide of life, mankind might knowA soft exemption from the worst of woe;No more the powerful would the weak oppress,But tyrants learn the luxury to bless;No more would slav'ry bind a hopeless train,Of human victims, in her galling chain;Mercy the hard, the cruel heart would moveTo soften mis'ry by the deeds of Jove;And av'rice from his hoarded treasures giveUnask'd, the liberal boon, that want might live!The impious tongue of falshood then would ceaseTo blast, with dark suggestions, virtue's peace;No more would spleen, or passion banish restAnd plant a pang in fond affection's breast;By one harsh word, one alter'd look, destroyHer peace, and wither every op'ning joy;Scarce can her tongue the captious wrong explain,The slight offence which gives so deep a pain!Th' affected ease that slights her starting tear,The words whose coldness kills from lips so dear;The hand she loves, alone can point the dart,Whose hidden sting could wound no other heart--These, of all pains the sharpest we endure,The breast which now inflicts, would spring to cure.--No more deserted genius then, would flyTo breathe in solitude his hopeless sigh;No more would Fortune's partial smile debaseThe spirit, rich in intellectual grace;Who views unmov'd from scenes where pleasures bloom,The flame of genius sunk in mis'ry's gloom;The soul heav'n form'd to soar, by want deprest,Nor heeds the wrongs that pierce a kindred breast.--Thou righteous Law! whose clear and useful lightSheds on the mind a ray divinely bright;Condensing in one rule whate'er the sageHas proudly taught, in many a labour'd page;Bid every heart thy hallow'd voice revere,To justice sacred, and to nature dear!

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.

POEMS,

BY

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

IN TWO VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

CONTENTS

OF THE

SECOND VOLUME.

An Epistle to Dr. Moore, Author of a View of Society and Manners inFrance, Switzerland, and Germany.

Part of an irregular Fragment, found in a Dark Passage of the Tower.

Peru.

Sonnet to Mrs. Siddons.

Queen Mary's Complaint.

Euphelia, an Elegy.

Sonnet to Expression.

ANEPISTLETODR. MOORE.

Whether dispensing hope, and ease To the pale victim of disease, Or in the social crowd you sit, And charm the group with sense and wit, Moore's partial ear will not disdain Attention to my artless strain.

ANEPISTLETODR. MOORE,

AUTHOR OF

A VIEW OF SOCIETY AND MANNERSINFRANCE, SWITZERLAND, AND GERMANY.

I mean no giddy heights to climb,And vainly toil to be sublime;While every line with labour wrought,Is swell'd with tropes for want of thought:Nor shall I call the Muse to shedCastalian drops upon my head;Or send me from Parnassian bowersA chaplet wove of fancy's flowers.At present all such aid I slight--My heart instructs me how to write.

With like benignity, and zeal,The mental malady to heal,To stop the fruitless, hopeless tear,The life you lengthen'd, render dear,To charm by fancy's powerful vein,"The written troubles of the brain,"From gayer scenes, compassion ledYour frequent footsteps to my shed:And knowing that the Muses' artHas power to ease an aching heart,You sooth'd that heart with partial praise,And I before too fond of lays,While others pant for solid gain,Grasp at a laurel sprig--in vain--You could not chill with frown severeThe madness to my soul so dear;For when Apollo came to storeYour mind with salutary lore,The god I ween, was pleas'd to dartA ray from Pindus on your heart;Your willing bosom caught the fire,And still is partial to the lyre.

But now from you at distance plac'dWhere _Epping_ spreads a woody waste;Tho' unrestrain'd my fancy flies,And views in air her fabrics rise,And paints with brighter bloom the flowers,Bids Dryads people all the bowers,And Echoes speak from every hill,And Naiads pour each little rill,And bands of Sylphs with pride unfoldTheir azure plumage mix'd with gold,My heart remembers with a sighThat you are now no longer nigh.The magic scenes no more engage,I quit them for your various page;Where, with delight I traverse o'erThe foreign paths you trod before:Ah not in vain those paths you trac'd,With heart to feel, with powers to taste!

Amid the ever-jocund trainWho sport upon the banks of Seine,In your light Frenchman pleas'd I seeHis nation's gay epitome;Whose careless hours glide smooth along,Who charms MISFORTUNE with a song.She comes not as on Albion's plain,With death, and madness in her train;For here, her keenest sharpest dartMay raze, but cannot pierce the heart.Yet he whose spirit light as airCalls life a jest, and laughs at care,Feels the strong force of pity's voice,And bids afflicted love rejoice;Love, such as fills the poet's pageLove, such as form'd the golden age--FANCHON, thy grateful look I see--I share thy joys--I weep with thee--What eye has read without a tearA tale to nature's heart so dear!

There, dress'd in each sublimer graceGeneva's happy scene I trace;Her lake, from whose broad bosom thrownRushes the loud impetuous Rhone,And bears his waves with mazy sweepIn rapid torrents to the deep--Oh for a Muse less weak of wing,High on yon Alpine steeps to spring,And tell in verse what they discloseAs well as you have told in prose;How wrapt in snows and icy showers,Eternal winter, horrid lowersUpon the mountain's awful brow,While purple summer blooms below;How icy structures rear their formsPale products of ten thousand storms;Where the full sun-beam powerless fallsOn crystal arches, columns, walls,Yet paints the proud fantastic heightWith all the various hues of light.Why is no poet call'd to birthIn such a favour'd spot of earth?How high his vent'rous Muse might rise,And proudly scorn to ask suppliesFrom the Parnassian hill, the fireOf verse, _Mont Blanc_ might well inspire.O SWITZERLAND! how oft these eyesDesire to view thy mountains rise;How fancy loves thy steeps to climb,So wild, so solemn, so sublime;And o'er thy happy vales to roam,Where freedom rears her humble home.Ah, how unlike each social graceWhich binds in love thy manly race,The HOLLANDERS phlegmatic easeToo cold to love, too dull to please;Who feel no sympathetic woe,Nor sympathetic joy bestow,But fancy words are only madeTo serve the purposes of trade,And when they neither buy, nor sell,Think silence answers quite as well.

Now in his happiest light is seenVOLTAIRE, when evening chas'd his spleen,And plac'd at supper with his friends,The playful flash of wit descends--Of names renown'd you clearly shewThe finer traits we wish to know--To Prussia's martial clime I strayAnd see how FREDERIC spends the day;Behold him rise at dawning lightTo form his troops for future fight;Thro' the firm ranks his glances pierce,Where discipline, with aspect fierce,And unrelenting breast, is seenDegrading man to a machine;My female heart delights to turnWhere GREATNESS seems not quite so stern:Mild on th' IMPERIAL BROW she glows,And lives to soften human woes.

But lo! on ocean's stormy breastI see majestic VENICE rest;While round her spires the billows rave,Inverted splendours gild the wave.Fair liberty has rear'd with toil,Her fabric on this marshy soil.She fled those banks with scornful pride,Where classic Po devolves her tide:Yet here her unrelenting lawsAre deaf to nature's, freedom's cause.Unjust! they seal'd FOSCARI'S doom,An exile in his early bloom.And he, who bore the rack unmov'd,Divided far from those he lov'd,From all the social hour can give,From all that make it bliss to live,These worst of ills refus'd to bear,And died, the victim of despair.

An eye of wonder let me raise,While on imperial ROME I gaze.But oh! no more in glory brightShe fills with awe th' astonish'd sight:Her mould'ring fanes in ruin trac'd,Lie scatter'd on _Campania's_ waste.Nor only these--alas! we findThe wreck involves the human mind:The lords of earth now drag a chainBeneath a pontiff's feeble reign;The soil that gave a _Cato_ birthNo longer yields heroic worth,Whose image lives but on the bust,Or consecrates the medal's rust:Yet if no heart of modern frameGlows with the antient hero's flame,The dire _Arena's_ horrid stageIs banish'd from this milder age;Those savage virtues too are fledAt which the human feelings bled.

While now at _Virgil's_ tomb you bend,O let me on your steps attend!Kneel on the turf that blossoms round,And kiss, with lips devout, the ground.I feel how oft his magic powersShed pleasure on my lonely hours.Tho' hid from me the classic tongue,In which his heav'nly strain was sung,In _Dryden's_ tuneful lines, I pierceThe shaded beauties of his verse.

Bright be the rip'ning beam, that shinesFair FLORENCE, on thy purple vines!And ever pure the fanning galeThat pants in Arno's myrtle vale!Here, when the barb'rous northern race,Dire foes to every muse, and grace,Had doom'd the banish'd arts to roamThe lovely wand'rers found a home;And shed round _Leo's_ triple crownUnfading rays of bright renown.Who e'er has felt his bosom glowWith knowledge, or the wish to know;Has e'er from books with transport caughtThe rich accession of a thought;Perceiv'd with conscious pride, he feelsThe sentiment which taste reveals;Let all who joys like these possess,Thy vale, enchanting FLORENCE bless--O had the arts benignant lightNo more reviv'd from Gothic night,Earth had been one vast scene of strife,Or one drear void had sadden'd life;Lost had been all the sage has taught,The painter's sketch, the poet's thought,The force of sense, the charm of wit,Nor ever had your page been writ;That soothing page, which care beguiles,And dresses truth in fancy's smiles:For not with hostile step you prestEach foreign soil, a thankless guest!While travellers who want the skillTo mark the shapes of good and ill,With vacant stare thro' Europe range,And deem all bad, because 'tis strange;Thro' varying modes of life, you traceThe finer trait, the latent grace,And where thro' every vain disguiseYou view the human follies rise,The stroke of irony you dartWith force to mend, not wound the heart.While intellectual objects shareYour mind's extensive view, you bear,Quite free from spleen's incumb'ring load,The little evils on the road--So, while the path of life I tread,A path to me with briers spread;Let me its tangled mazes spyLike you, with gay, good-humour'd eye;Nor at those thorny tracts repine,The treasure of your friendship, mine.

Grange Hill, Essex.

PARTOF ANIRREGULAR [Transcriber's note: Original "IRREGULAL"] FRAGMENT,FOUND IN ADARK PASSAGE OF THE TOWER.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The following Poem is formed on a very singular and sublime idea. Ayoung gentleman, possessed of an uncommon genius for drawing, onvisiting the Tower of London, passing one door of a singularconstruction, asked what apartment it led to, and expressed a desire tohave it opened. The person who shewed the place shook his head, andanswered, "Heaven knows what is within that door--it has been shut forages."--This answer made small impression on the other hearers; but avery deep one on the imagination of this youth. Gracious Heaven! anapartment shut up for ages--and in the Tower!

"Ye Towers of Julius! London's lasting shame, By many a foul and midnight murder fed."

Genius builds on a slight foundation, and rears beautiful structures on"the baseless fabric of a vision." The above transient hint dwelt on theyoung man's fancy, and conjured into his memory all the murders whichhistory records to have been committed in the Tower; Henry the Sixth,the Duke of Clarence, the two young princes, sons of Edward the Fourth,Sir Thomas Overbury, &c. He supposes all their ghosts assembled in thisunexplored apartment, and to these his fertile imagination has addedseveral others. One of the spectres raises an immense pall of blackvelvet, and discovers the remains of a murdered royal family, whosestory is lost in the lapse of time.--The gloomy wildness of theseimages struck my imagination so forcibly, that endeavouring to catch thefire of the youth's pencil, this Fragment was produced.

PARTOF ANIRREGULAR FRAGMENT,FOUND IN ADARK PASSAGE OF THE TOWER.

I.

Rise, winds of night! relentless tempests rise! Rush from the troubled clouds, and o'er me roll; In this chill pause a deeper horror lies, A wilder fear appals my shudd'ring soul.-- 'Twas on this day[A], this hour accurst, That Nature starting from repose Heard the dire shrieks of murder burst-- From infant innocence they rose, And shook these solemn towers!-- I shudd'ring pass that fatal room For ages wrapt in central gloom;-- I shudd'ring pass that iron door Which Fate perchance unlocks no more;Death, smear'd with blood, o'er the dark portal lowers.

[A] The anniversary of the murder of Edward the Fifth, and his brother Richard, Duke of York.

II.

How fearfully my step resounds Along these lonely bounds:--Spare, savage blast! the taper's quiv'ring fires, Deep in these gath'ring shades its flame expires. Ye host of heaven! the door recedes-- It mocks my grasp--what unseen hands Have burst its iron bands? No mortal force this gate unbarr'd Where danger lives, which terrors guard-- Dread powers! its screaming hinges close On this dire scene of impious deeds-- My feet are fix'd!--Dismay has bound My step on this polluted ground-- But lo! the pitying moon, a line of light Athwart the horrid darkness dimly throws,And from yon grated window chases night.--

III.

Ye visions that before me roll, That freeze my blood, that shake my soul! Are ye the phantoms of a dream? Pale spectres! are ye what ye seem? They glide more near-- Their forms unfold! Fix'd are their eyes, on me they bend-- Their glaring look is cold! And hark!--I hearSounds that the throbbing pulse of life suspend.

[A] Henry the Sixth, crowned when an infant, at Paris.[B] Richard the Third, by murdering so many near relations, seemed to revenge the sufferings of Henry the Sixth, and his family, on the House of York.

Now his thrilling accents die-- His shape eludes my searching eye-- But who is he[A], convuls'd with pain, That writhes in every swelling vein? Yet in so deep, so wild a groan, A sharper anguish seems to live Than life's expiring pang can give:-- He dies deserted, and alone-- If pity can allay thy woes Sad spirit they shall find repose--Thy friend, thy long-lov'd friend is near!He comes to pour the parting tear, He comes to catch the parting breath--Ah heaven! no melting look he wears,His alter'd eye with vengeance glares;Each frantic passion at his soul,'Tis he has dash'd that venom'd bowl With agony, and death.

For this, while fame thro' each successive age On her exulting lip thy name shall breathe;While woman, pointing to thy finish'd page, Claims from imperious man the critic wreathe;

Truth on her spotless record shall enroll Each moral beauty to her spirit dear;Paint in bright characters each grace of soul-- While admiration pours a gen'rous tear.

HELEN MARIA WILLIAMS.

London, April the 24th, 1784.

ADVERTISEMENT.

That no readers of the following work may entertain expectationsrespecting it which it would ill satisfy, it is necessary to acquaintthem, that the author has not had the presumption even to attempt afull, historical narration of the fall of the Peruvian empire. Todescribe that important event with accuracy, and to display withclearness and force the various causes which combined to produce it,would require all the energy of genius, and the most glowing colours ofimagination. Conscious of her utter inability to execute such a design,she has only aimed at a simple detail of some few incidents that make apart of that romantic story; where the unparalleled sufferings of aninnocent and amiable people, form the most affecting subjects of truepathos, while their climate, totally unlike our own, furnishes new and